


Hallowed Saints with burnt out Halos

by FeatherQuill



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5660554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeatherQuill/pseuds/FeatherQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham comes to terms with himself</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hallowed Saints with burnt out Halos

If you would ask him, Will Graham would tell you about Death. Not as a state of being but as a person. Somber eyes and an infuriating smile. The thing that makes you sick and makes you long for all the wrong reasons . Yes, Will knows Death himself as kind and gentle but also punishing him without mercy. He feels – sometimes – like Christ nailed to the cross even if the Irony isn´t lost on him. Not one single bit. 

He knows the days the madness in his brilliant brain gets the better hold on him and he is willing, oh so willing to drop to his knees and pray until his hands are starting to bleed, knuckles breaking from the sheer effort to hold his hands together in a prayer. Lucifer, he thinks – head full of thoughts- once upon a time also was an angel. The highest, the most beautiful and yet. And yet. The chuckle rises in his throat unable to come past the bitter taste of blood wanting to rise from his lungs and engulfing his heart. 

Hannibal, he thinks and feels, his breastbone vibrating and the muscle behind it also vibrating and not breaking however prose and poem would suggest , yes Hannibal is his Lucifer but he yet doesn´t know which role he himself is playing. In moments like that he remembers his mother. Oh god, how he misses his mother in moments like these when he doesn´t know where in the world he belongs and if he belongs at all. He would start to cry if there would be tears left behind the dry skin of his eyelids but he has given way to rational thoughts and he knows how the feelings he has held inside him don´t matter that much. His heart however, refuses to beat to the rhythm of his wonderful and rational mind locked inside his brain. 

So, he endures. He endures much and he is never the One to pinpoint things out because he just knows how they will look upon him. The Outsider, the Freak. The One that never should have left his mothers womb in the first place, but then he understands. He doesn´t know why on earth it comes to him while he is trying to get a discount on dog food and the cashier stares at him oddly once he starts to laugh so loud it makes people turn around. He composes himself quickly, clears his throat and pays up before he goes home, tries to get his head in order but fails. Insanity, the little devil on his shoulder whispers hauntingly into his ear. Of blood sheath and madness and of letting go although he has been raised in the shadow of a cross much to heavy to bear on scrawny shoulders, bones yet not formed. Sometimes he wonders if he would be able to cry blood, feel nails hammered through his wrists but then he remembers. And he remembers how Hannibal looks at him though crocodile eyes and speaks with the tongue of a snake. 

“Dinner?”

Hannibal asks on a bright Autumn day with the sun behind him all but burning , smile firmly in place, eyes cold as a frozen lake. Yes, he understands now, there isn´t really a way to turn back to. Hannibal just smirks at him - innocent and yet demanding, hands placed neatly around forks and knives a pleasant smile in place and Will? Well, he knows and if he doesn´t understand himself all of that – nobody else will . He breathes in and breathes out and then he thinks of nine circles of hell and with a smile of his own he accepts. He will bleed out, offer his heart on an altar and yet -

 

“Yes, thank you Dr.Lecter.”


End file.
